


Kissing Isn't Touching

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Neverland Renaissance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9729071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: Sure it isn't, Emma. Post-The Kiss™ filth.





	

**  
Kissing Isn’t Touching  
**

Emma couldn’t get that one song by the Killers out of her head. 

Her father had insisted that they stop for the night (“How do you know it’s even nighttime,” she’d grumbled, annoyed when no one answered her obviously rhetorical question). Regina had disappeared off to god-knows-where, so now it was just the four of them: Emma and her parents.

And Hook.

And, if she was being totally honest with herself, the ghost of Neal.

“‘Cause I just can’t look, it’s killing me,” she whisper-sang under her breath, pushing aside some stupid fucking leaves larger than her face and scanning for a good spot. Not that anywhere in fucking Neverland could be considered _good_ , but she was determined to get some goddamned sleep, all by herself.

If only she could stop thinking about…

After reaching a smallish clearing and deciding it would have to do, she shook out her bedroll, her face pinching when it just wasn’t enough to get comfortable on. God, _nothing_ was enough for her. Not her sleeping space, not the amount of sleep she might get, not the information they needed to get to Henry. And now on top of everything there was a new complication, finding out that Neal was alive. Which she was definitely happy about, maybe? She could resolve all of her unresolved whatever, now, right?

Right.

Frustrated, she swept her hair from her brow, disgusted at the sweat she found there, and flopped down onto her makeshift bed. She was alone now; David and Mary Margaret were probably cuddling all comfortable next to the fire, and Hook…

Hook was probably…

She sighed. Off somewhere drinking, maybe. Or sharpening his hook. While smoldering.

Possibly brooding about the kiss she’d laid on him earlier in the day. She knew he would be; the guy hadn’t been exactly circumspect in the way he flirted with her, his eyes and smirk making it clear to anyone within a fifty mile radius that he wanted to fuck her. That was why she’d kissed him; to shut him up about it.

_Sure, Swan._ That’s _why you kissed him._

You _said it was because you were feeling good. So, which is it?_

“Neither,” she grumbled. She flipped onto her back, her arms splaying out lazily, the backs of her hands resting on some moss or something else squishy and soft. Who knew, in Neverland. Maybe it was some giant animal camouflaged as the ground, ready to consume her and put her out of her misery. She wouldn’t have to think about anything anymore, about getting out of there, about her son being in danger, about Neal. Or Hook.

About kissing Hook.

_It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?_

_It was only a kiss._

“It was only a kiss.” She laughed out loud. _I’m going crazy._

Her chuckles subsided as he closed her eyes, determined to fall asleep, but it was like even thinking about the kiss opened up this whole world of fantasy for her. The secret world she kept even from herself, the one that had been in the back of her mind for months now. The one that kept knocking at the worst, most inopportune moments. Hook would say one of those arrogant sonuvabitch things that she both hated and loved, his smirk telling her a lot--mostly that he would make her feel good--and there it was, she’d be thinking about fucking him. Or letting him fuck her. Hard, and up against the nearest wall. Or tree. Hell, standing up with nothing but each other to balance on, anything. Sometimes he’d look up at her and she’d be reminded of that time he’d tied that scarf on her hand with his mouth, which would further remind her that he’d probably look at her like that when going down on her, and then she’d start having some pretty graphic images assaulting her mind and she’d have to shut that shit down fast, because, well. No way. 

_It was only a kiss, Emma_. _Just, you know. A kiss further down south._

“Ugh,” she muttered with disgust--it was mostly directed at herself but also a little bit at him--and popped her eyes open. To her great disappointment, she was still in Neverland--canopy of trees above her, leaves and whatever below, vines everywhere else. Cicadas and other bugs buzzing a faint but insistent white noise background, the occasional crash of something far off in the distance disturbing the otherwise sleepy solitude of the jungle. She couldn’t even hear the crackle of fire from their main campsite; she was all alone out here, wide awake and slowly being consumed by the memory of kissing Captain Hook.

_Since I’m clearly not going to sleep…_

She sighed once again, this time with resignation, relaxing her body and allowing the memory to wash over her. She’d been feeling so damned good; at the time she thought it was because they were finally going to get shit done, but now that she was alone with her thoughts and actually allowing herself to process them, she asked herself _why_ she’d been feeling good.

Because it had been the first time her father had shown actual approval of Hook.

She really couldn’t deny it. She could say it was because she was relieved that her father and her...unwilling pirate ally were getting along, which meant it would be easier to find Henry. While that was definitely true...it wasn’t the entire truth.

She’d actually been relieved that Hook had done something good. Something heroic. He’d _saved_ one of them. Didn’t matter that it was her father; it was just that he’d done something to help, and she knew she wasn’t imagining that Hook actually didn’t want credit for it. She could see it in the way he hesitated when David had offered a celebratory drink, the way Hook had shied from accepting the simple thanks. He was uncomfortable with praise. And that was something she could identify with.

She didn’t _want_ to identify with Hook. 

Did she?

And then, to make it worse, he’d tried to like, cover it up with that irritating bravado of his, swaggering toward her and trying to turn it around with outrageous flirting. She knew that’s what he’d been doing, tapping on his lip like some hot douchebag in a romcom, the one who the leading lady clearly wasn’t supposed to go after, the one who was just the irritating guy that was supposed to make the leading man look way better by comparison. Only Emma couldn’t imagine anyone looking better than Killian fucking Jones.

_I just can’t look; it’s killing me--_

_And taking control._

“God, shut up,” she told her mind, but her mind wouldn’t listen. She started reliving that moment unwillingly ( _unwillingly_ , oh _please_ ), trying to remember the exact moment she’d decided to kiss him. It was somewhere before the “couldn’t handle it”s and somewhere after...when he came back to help them save Henry in the first place, as long as she was being honest with herself.

That moment he’d looked at her all dirty, his head tilting knowingly, like he knew he was getting to her, had solidified it. She’d tried to hold it in, that urge to do something about Hook and his arrogance once and for all, but she’d lost it. She was feeling good in general, charitable toward him, and, well. She needed a reward for not exploding. So, she’d grabbed him, pulled him in, and kissed him. Just to shut him up. And just to give herself a little happy.

She was usually so much better at kissing, really, she was. Never that sloppy and inelegant. Maybe impatient and down-to-business, but Emma liked to get lost in the potential of a romantic moment as much as any girl who doesn’t want commitment. But goddamn, she really hadn’t been expecting _feelings_ to pour out of her as she hauled him in for more. She hadn’t wanted to pull away. She had tried, god help her, she had, but her lips and body and hands hadn’t seemed capable of letting go just yet, so. She hadn’t. She allowed herself exactly five more seconds to bask in losing herself with him, then she’d pulled away.

He hadn’t pulled away, though. In fact, he’d leaned in for more and dammit, she’d almost gone for it. There’d been this half second pause where she’d contemplated just throwing down and fucking him right there on the spot, but something had stopped her. 

All of that would have been good and fine if he hadn’t looked so...destroyed. She’d never, ever seen him so vulnerable. A couple of times there had been hints of it, this unsure, almost shyness in his form that had seemed so weird on the ever-cocky and arrogant Captain Hook she knew, at least at first. Standing there in the fucking jungle with their bodies pressed against each other--Emma having _just_ decided to _not_ fuck him--and he looked like she’d just pulled a rug out from under him. He looked like he’d been lost for so long that finding whatever it was he needed to find had surprised him. Like he didn’t know which way was up. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

Like he was going to run.

So, naturally, she’d run first. It was what she did. Not before informing him that it wouldn’t happen again, of course.

As she had walked away from him, she’d felt this insistent tugging inside. It was the same feeling she’d had over the years, this mysterious call inside of her, a near-yearning to do something about an insane situation that had suddenly gone sideways. A pulling in her gut, like a fisherman’s line had caught her on the inside and was pulling her somewhere she didn’t really want to go, yanking on her arms to raise and release the energy gathering inside. Now, of course, she understood that it was her magic telling her something. And as she’d walked away from the best, worst kiss of her life, she knew that roiling, tugging magic inside was telling her to go back to him.

Only she hadn’t, and now here she was, all alone in the damn jungle and reliving the entire thing. And worse, her magic was sloshing around inside of her lazily, focusing somewhere below and beneath her navel and practically taunting her into doing something about it.

_Go find him._

“Hell no,” she muttered. 

_Keep thinking about him, then._

Yeah, she could do that. She already did that, anyway.

As Emma just gave in to thinking about Captain Hook, her entire body relaxed and a sense of peace stole over her for one brief moment, but then she ruined it by focusing on the wrong thing; it became nothing but keyed-up tension, worse than when she’d kissed him. Just after she’d hauled him to her and he’d gotten over his surprise--there was this moment when he had sighed into her, and that was something she wished she hadn’t thought of. Because it was that sound that did her in--his very quiet, very gratifying moan of appreciation. Soft and small, gone before she could process it, but boy, was she processing it now. What had it meant? Why hadn’t he made any other sounds of enjoyment? Was it not good, was she not good? She immediately dismissed that, because she knew he thought it was good, the flush across his cheeks and that...that _look_ on his face after. It told her that he’d enjoyed it as much as she had. So, why? Why had he kept quiet? Normally, she’d have to offer him a million bucks or doubloons just to get the guy to shut up. But once she was kissing him and he’d let that one little moan slip, suddenly he’s Mr. Quiet.

_Think about what it would have been like if he’d been loud._

“Fuck,” she whispered to the humid jungle. 

_Hey, how about this: think about if he’d touched you, too._

Then it was _all_ she could think about. What if he’d touched her skin, put his hand on her shoulder, maybe run it down her arm. Held her hand. Or worse, what if he’d touched her neck? Pretty sure she would’ve let it go further than a mere kiss if he’d touched her neck.

A _mere_ kiss, ha.

Emma squirmed. She was tired, but she knew sleep wouldn’t come, not without some serious relaxation first. She was too keyed up--from fighting, from uncertainty, everything. So, she decided to try the time-honored tradition of self-relaxation.

As she replayed the _mere_ kiss ( _it was only a kiss, how did it end up like this?_ ) in her head, she allowed herself to fantasize about it going further. About how instead of pulling away when it had been clear he would have been down for more, what if she’d pulled him back for another kiss, and another, and more, until they were nothing but tongues and mouths and pulling and feeling and she could practically _feel_ him touching her skin, could hear his heavy breathing, could taste his broken moans in her mouth. Sighing deeply because fantasizing about Hook really was relaxing, she reached up and ran her hand over her chest, slowly meandering down until she felt the button at her waist. _What if I just…?_

She unbuttoned her jeans, and slid her hand inside.

“Emma,” he would breathe against her lips, begging to be let in. And in the delicious blur of her own fantasies, she let him. 

She slipped her hand beneath the edge of her underwear, her fingers brushing delicately over slightly unkempt hairs, teasing with light fingertips where she knew she was probably already wet.

And that’s when she heard it: the sound of someone creeping through the jungle.

“Goddammit,” she muttered. Her hand stilled; maybe they’d keep going. But then the sounds got a little louder, and with a heavy sigh, her hand slipped back out, resting over the still-unbuttoned top of her jeans. _Maybe if I pretend I’m asleep, whoever it is will leave me alone._ She closed her eyes and tried to ease her breathing, which she hadn’t realized had been pretty fast.

As she lay there with her eyes closed, she heard the shuffling of someone moving leaves aside, and then she became aware of a presence nearby, that prickle-tickle along her neck that told her she wasn’t alone. It was a familiar feeling. She knew exactly who it was.

_Why is he just standing there? Is he watching me sleep?_

The pleased satisfaction she got from that wasn’t as terrible as it should have been.

“You can’t sleep either, I take it,” Hook said softly. Emma sighed, opening her eyes and turning to look at him. Which was probably a mistake.

Even on a bad day, Hook looked good; she hated to admit it, but there was something very appealing about the “I’m a bad boy with a tragic past” thing he had going on. He was just like any of the other men she’d had over the years--attractive, and clearly not wanting to talk about whatever was bothering him but willing to fuck it away with her. She figured he would have made a great one-night stand, if she was just a girl in a bar and he was just a guy knocking back his rum and asking for another. That was another subject of her fantasies, actually--meeting him in some bar back in Boston or New York or any of the other cities she’d lived in but never called home--letting him take her back to his place, or maybe shoving him into the nearest bathroom and having a good, solid fuck up against a wall or sink or any surface, really.

Since he was standing next to her, she probably should have stopped fantasizing about fucking him. But she didn’t. Not when she met his eye, made sure she had his attention, and said, “No, I can’t sleep. I need to relax first, and I can’t do that with you just standing there.” She put challenge in her words; it was purposeful, that thing she did when she tried to provoke him into showing his true colors--only he never responded as she expected. He was always sincere.

She wondered how he’d respond now.

Again, not as expected. 

Instead of turning and leaving her be, he kept staring at her for a moment, then his eyes roamed down her body slowly, and even though he was a good ten feet away from her, she felt it like a caress. The tell-tale tingle of arousal was greater now, begun when she’d brushed her fingers against herself and much more insistent under Hook’s careful scrutiny. She clenched inside, feeling her body tensing up. She tried to cover it by bringing her arms up to cross over her chest, and that’s when his eyes stopped roving. She looked down to see where he’d landed-- _shit_.

The unbuttoned placket of her jeans.

And maybe it was that she was so keyed up, or maybe it was that he didn’t do a damned thing about it, but Emma could feel where this was going--she was going to sleep, dammit, and to do that, she needed to orgasm, with or without him standing there--so she decided to aid it along. Feeling a boldness steel over when because she came to a decision, she sighed and uncrossed her arms, feeling quite relaxed despite what she was about to do, which was surprising. Or not surprising.

She unbuttoned her jeans and drew them down, arching her back a little to help kick them off better. And all the while, he simply stood there, unmoving, but watching with an intense look on his solemn face.

Emma paused completely, waiting for the moment that he met her eyes, and that’s when she reached down and once again slid her hand beneath her underwear. And started moving her fingers. She wished he was standing closer so she could see the blue of his eyes, could maybe focus on whether his pupils were dilated or not. But he didn’t move, so she made do with keeping eye contact, biting her lip a little when she felt wetness on her fingertips. She moved her hand down more, wondering if he could see what she was doing beneath her underwear, whether the white fabric was moving with her, clinging to her hand as she slowly started to get herself off. But only with delicate touches, nothing real, nothing that would cause actual pleasure. No, she was teasing herself, both with her own touching and with Hook watching. And it was the best goddamned feeling in the world, having him there, looking at her but saying and doing nothing about it. Also the worst.

She knew if he was going to do anything about it that she’d have to say something first. Only that would mean something, wouldn’t it? So she didn’t. She held out, continuing to rub very lightly over her increasingly swollen flesh; her only concession to her impatience was to raise one knee, and after a few minutes, spreading her other leg out. Just in case he didn’t have a clear view. And still, he just stood there, watching. Waiting.

It was like the weirdest stand-off in history; Emma didn’t necessarily want to give in, but she knew he wouldn’t do anything, either. He was content to let her lead. And it was frustrating, she was frustrated. She had two choices: just go for it and get herself off, or make him come over.

It wasn’t really a hard decision; she was too far gone. And she needed to sleep.

She pulled her hand away and lifted it to her mouth. Swiping her fingers over her lips, she looked directly at him, feeling smug when he looked every inch as devastated as when she’d kissed him. She waited until his gaze shifted from her mouth to her eyes.

“Well, get over here and kiss me again,” she said, her voice husky with need. Apparently, that was all that he needed to hear.

She watched in an amused daze as he quickly ripped his coat off, dropping it to the ground in a pile and stalking to where she was laying, stopping next to her right side. He stood over her for a second, his eyes caressing her body once again and heightening her anticipation by a thousand. Then he kneeled down, reaching out with his hand and running it just over her body without touching, from her belly up to her chin. His fingers brushed her wrist, her hand still at her mouth, but the light touch was almost too much.

“No touching,” she whispered, somehow thinking that if he touched her she’d lose it. She wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen, but she knew that if he touched her skin, she’d roll him onto his back and fuck the desperation right out of him. And she just wasn’t ready for that. Hook--Killian--wasn’t a one-time thing, no matter how much she told herself that he was. She was pretty far gone in this moment, but the vague part of her mind that was trying to be sensible was insisting that he _could not_ touch her. So she wouldn’t let him. And she knew he’d obey.

“Kissing is touching, love,” he said, his voice rough with grit. 

“You know what I mean,” she chuckled, only she didn’t feel at all amused. “Right now, kissing _isn’t_ touching.” She angled herself a little toward him, hoping he’d take the lead, but of course he didn’t. He did lower himself down next to her, though, lying alongside her, perching on his left elbow with his head at a level with hers. “Well?” 

“Emma,” he intoned, and damn if he didn’t sound like he was admonishing her. “Are you quite certain--”

“Just kiss me, Killian,” she said softly, knowing she was pleading and not caring anymore. “It’s only a kiss.”

How did it end up like this?

He kissed her. And it was much better the second time around, like the first kiss was just them getting the lay of the land, because when he slanted his lips over hers it was familiar and she sighed into it, _finally_ feeling the relaxation she’d been seeking when she’d first set off to be alone. He licked along the seam of her lips and groaned, and when his tongue touched hers she remembered that she’d smeared her own arousal there, so she groaned, too. _Be louder,_ she silently implored him.

He was languid, stretched out next to her but not touching her except with his lips and teeth and tongue, gently easing her into allowing the tingle to start up again. As Hook slowly consumed her she got into it, resisting the urge to grab at him and instead grabbing herself, her breast full in her hand and her nipple pebbled against her palm. She let go roughly, her hand smoothing down her top, her fingers a little cold as she brushed the skin of her abdomen, her hips shaking a little when she got to the waistband of her underwear. Down more, brushing against the crinkle of hair, and this time when she reached the top of her slit it was even wetter than before. She groaned into his mouth, wishing he could taste this new arousal so she tried to make her kiss even better, dropping her jaw and letting him in. 

Her fingers went lower and her thighs wider; her knee brushed his legs and he jumped, sliding away from it. No touching, right. So maybe she regretted that directive a little bit.

But no, it was a good idea. If he touched her… 

So she touched herself instead. Slid her fingers lower, teasing her own entrance, biting his lip when she slipped the tips inside. Tasted his groan, it was loud, it was good, _do it again._

She drew his lip between her teeth as she pressed two fingers all the way in, letting go with a gasp, arching her neck and closing her eyes at the contact. 

_It’s not enough._

She opened her eyes to wrecked blue, regarding her like she was either his savior or his ultimate destruction. In that moment, she wasn’t sure which she preferred.

With hesitation, she pulled out and then went back in, gasping at the slick tightness, clenching around her own fingers. She did it again, gently this time, frustrated that it wasn’t him while knowing if it was that it would be too much.

He was looking at her, looking like he was afraid to say something, afraid to move. She ran her fingers up her slick slit and rubbed at her clit a little, her eyes rolling back in her head briefly before she went back down and in, biting her lip when his eyes went wide. He was inches away, his mouth hovering over hers, and when she pressed into her warmth again he brushed his lips against her, his breath hot and heavy and loud.

And then she was startled when she felt warmth through the fabric of her underwear--his hand pressing against hers, guiding her movements as she slid in and out of her tight, swollen warmth. 

Too much.

She stilled her hand. 

“No touching,” she reminded him, regretting her own directions. He pulled away, clearly reluctant but obeying nonetheless.

Then he kissed her and it was enough to make her gasp and pull her hand away; she had to brace herself against the onslaught that was Captain Hook plundering her mouth, one step ahead of her as she tried to keep up with his desperation. He broke away, tilting his head to rest just above her forehead, his hair tickling her skin as he breathed heavy and tortured against her mouth.

“Hook,” she said, her voice shaking with need. He closed his eyes and nodded, licking his lips before opening his eyes to look at her solemnly. “Help me take these off.” She snapped the elastic on her underwear and he nodded again, understanding instantly. He rose to his knees and edged over, looking uncertain as he took a big breath and exhaled heavily. Carefully, he positioned himself between her splayed-open legs, looking down at the apex of her thighs like he didn’t know what to do, or maybe like he wasn’t sure how to go about doing it without touching her.

She should’ve known, of course; she watched him clench his jaw in determination a couple of times before he leaned down and reached out with his left arm, resting the tip of his hook just below her navel and drawing the somehow-cool metal down her skin, catching it on the elastic and drawing it down slowly. She held her breath; god, she’d had this fantasy before, too--him undressing her with his hook, touching her with it. He kept going, the tip pressing oh-so-gently into the soft flesh of her belly and over to the mound of flesh that was desperate for touch. 

_No touching,_ she scolded herself.

Yeah, why was that, again? She couldn’t remember.

He was careful to keep the pressure of his hook light but still, when it brushed very faintly over her clit, it was all she could do to keep from crying out. _God, we’ll have to explore that later_ , she told herself, but the thought escaped her as quickly because he was pulling her underwear down. She lifted her ass a little to help him, biting her lip as she lifted her legs. He finished the torture quickly once she’d lifted her legs, the scrap of her underwear hanging off his hook like some filthy book cover for a romance novel. And then, because she was so eager to continue, she dropped her feet down, her knees bent at odd angles, her thighs spreading wide so she could finish herself off. And Hook, thankfully, didn’t fucking move from his vantage point. She watched him reach out for her underwear with his hand, pinching it between two fingers and drawing it away gently. She wondered if he’d keep it, like some filthy memento, but to her own surprise, she was disappointed when he simply dropped it somewhere off to the side.

And then he dropped down to his elbows, his eyes trained on the exposed area between her legs. She supposed she should have felt self-conscious but didn’t; she was glad to have him there, really, even though he was very careful not to touch her as he got himself situated.

When he’d finally settled himself, he raised a wary eye to her face. She thought of the scarf-tying again, and the similarity wasn’t lost on her. 

This was how it would be if he went down on her.

That thought propelled her to action. Without any more slow caressing or further hesitation, she put her hand on top of her mound, kneading the wet flesh with four fingers before slipping the middle one in. She sighed with pleasure; keeping her eyes open, she toyed with her own flesh, watching his eyes drop down to where she was playing with herself. There was something so hot in what they were doing-- _Captain fucking Hook is watching me get myself off_ , she thought a little hysterically. Well, the only thing for it was to follow the request he’d once given her--she really got into it. She had to resist the urge to close her eyes because she wanted to watch him watching her; she wanted to see all of his reactions. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way he winced a little before shifting his lower half; she hoped it was because he had a giant erection. The thought gave her power. Power to _really_ get into it.

She raised her hips and balanced herself on her shoulders and upper back, reaching out with her other hand to spread herself open so he’d get a better view. The feeling of wetness was too good, too slippery, too warm; she dipped her other fingers inside, swirling them around to gather the wetness before sliding up and moving around in a sloppy circle of sensation. She found a good spot and paused there, tapping lightly and delighting when he groaned, long and breathy. She pressed into that spot, closing her eyes very briefly at how good it felt; she spread herself wider, opened her legs even more, lifted her hips higher. Rubbed faster. Gasped gently, again and again, her heartbeat speeding, the slight strain in her thighs ignored as she continued to work herself up and up and up.

And just when she felt that flutter, that signal that her orgasm was coming, Hook shocked the hell out of her. He leaned down, the scruff of his beard scratching her skin just before his lips pressed over her fingers and his tongue swiped over them, slightly catching her fevered, wet flesh.

Her fingers stilled. 

“Fuck,” she whimpered. She looked at him, feeling desperate for him to do it again but no, she couldn’t let him do that. Could she? “I said no touching.”

“Ah,” he laughed, and there he was. Captain Hook. He caught her accusatory look and there was a very intense, very feral gleam in his eyes. “Kissing isn’t touching, love. Remember?” She knew she didn’t mistake taunting pirate, but he was still holding back. And hell, she was the one who’d said that, right? Kissing isn’t touching. It’s just kissing.

With a sharp jerk of her head, she nodded. _Please kiss me there_ , she silently pleaded.

And it was like he heard her. He nodded in kind then dropped his gaze down to her fingers, seeming to consider them for a few moments. Then he dropped his jaw down low, his beard scratching her wrist as he opened wide, his tongue sweeping down and licking along her fingers, wiggling when he reached her knuckles, the gentle swipe once again catching near her clit. 

Emma watched him, utterly entranced by how _dirty_ he looked down there. Jesus, imagine if they were doing this for real? She resumed rubbing herself lightly, wondering how far he was going to take it. Deciding she no longer cared, she tapped her flesh again, finding that same spot and sighing into it. She could feel it building, the added bonus of Hook’s mouth so near her making the sensation better, more; more intense, more needed, just _more_. She gasped on a particularly filthy, delicious, soft touch and maybe it was because she’d been loud just then, maybe it was because his tenuous grasp on the situation finally slipped, but when she made that noise it was like a dam broke. He dove down, his tongue sliding between her fingers and god, on her wet, warm flesh, catching the exact perfect spot, teasing it higher with little flicks, continuing to work around her fingers until she got fed up with the not enough. She moved her hand up, using it to aid the other in keeping herself wide open so he could take over.

_Please take over._

He did.

He sucked her flesh into his mouth and pulled back slowly, letting go with a harsh gasp that had her crying out and jerking her hips toward his face for more. He eyed her face briefly, his dark gaze framed by the hair falling over his brow as he dove back in, mouth open wide now, his tongue seeking and finding home as it licked down, toying at her entrance before sweeping inside, up and tight and catching a new spot. Emma started circling her hips into it, countering his circling with her own movements, pressing herself against his face until she was practically fucking it. He pulled his tongue out but kept himself pressed against her the whole time, sliding his mouth and nose and beard against her until she just couldn’t take it, she devolved into a mess of sensation and gasped moans and thrusting hips, his lips sucking her in once again, between his teeth, his tongue flicking tight circles around and around her clit. She almost wished he’d come up and kiss her mouth like that, kiss her so that she could taste herself on him, and maybe he could fuck her, too, just shuck out of his pants and put his cock in her and thrust good and hard. He’d be good, he’d be huge; she knew both things would be true. Picturing it made the delicious devour even better; he wasn’t fucking her with his cock, he was fucking her with his mouth. He was looking at her, his bright blue eyes watching her very carefully, his mouth still sucking and not letting go, his tongue doing a wicked dance as she rose higher and higher, her fingers numb from the effort at holding herself open for him but she held on, she had to, she had to finish. 

And then he had it, he had it, he had it, the exact right spot, exploding into stars as he licked exactly right and she let go, her eyes closing against the onslaught of his intense gaze as she pressed her hips into it, thrusting gently and her muscles seizing as she came and came and came. She could feel herself getting wetter as her hips danced counter to the rhythm of his tongue, the tickling bursting out and up and up, her toes curling into the ground as she pressed against him more and then it was too much, she came down too fast, fell too hard as he continued to gently lick her through it, his mouth easing as she let go with her hands, let go with her thighs, let go with her hips. Her muscles relaxed one by one, protesting the tension, her hips jerking as he gave her one last, long, lingering lick and ending it with a soft kiss at the top of her flesh.

With eyes still closed, Emma tried to catch her breath, embarrassed that it was so jagged and uneven. She inhaled long and deep through her nose, willing her heart to stop hammering and her lower half to stop twitching. When she’d finally gotten her breath enough to maybe speak, to maybe tell him he could leave now, she opened her eyes to find him sitting up on his knees, his face utterly blank except for the intense blue staring at her, full of meaning she didn’t want to explore.

She rose up on her elbows, wincing at the protest of her sore muscles. Needing to look away from his gaze, her eyes landed on the very large, very promising tenting of his leather pants. 

_That can be a one-time thing, too_ , she promised herself before shaking the thought away. 

When it became clear that the usually chatty Hook wasn’t going to break first, Emma sighed and sat up, carefully avoiding touching him with her legs or her gaze or her anything. She reached out for her underwear, swinging her legs and eyes away from him and wondering how long he was just going to fucking sit there.

_Say something_ , she pleaded. She just wasn’t sure if she was silently pleading with him or with herself.

She never got to find out. She didn’t see the expression on his face as he got up; by the time she finished pulling her pants on, he was gone.

And she never did sleep very well that night.


End file.
